


hooked on a feeling

by cloudclips



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Birthday Presents, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, The Glade, ben's totally adorable puppy crush on minho, glader shenanigans, pre-thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudclips/pseuds/cloudclips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt didn’t join in the light-hearted teasing or the jokes from the rest of them -- everyone had their way of coping in the Glade, and if Minho wanted four birthdays a year, Minho should get four birthdays a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hooked on a feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sulfuric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/gifts).



> this takes place in that weird nebulous amount of time before thomas shows up and MESSES EVERYTHING UP aka gets the plot going. this fic is woefully unbeta'd and a little melodramatic at times. hello swing by my [tumblr](http://runnerskeepers.tumblr.com/) and talk some minewt with me yeah?
> 
> **edit:** there's a [chinese translation](http://dddunno.lofter.com/post/1d72c0a1_aba4273) out on lofter by the super amazing [dddunno](http://dddunno.lofter.com/) — thank you very much!

Frypan’s breakfasts weren’t exactly gourmet, but Minho hummed happily over his pancakes anyway.

This was weird, Winston decided quietly at Newt. Newt agreed. Minho barely ever hummed, much less _happily_ ; no, the most he tended to do during breakfast was growl at everyone to go away and let him chart out section 4 in his mind’s eye in peace. Ever since he’d been made a Runner Minho had, well, changed.

Not freaky-changed (Changed, with a capital c), just different. Sullen. No longer bouncing all over the garden to drag Newt around to look at the onions and hissing into Frypan’s ear to ask for watermelon seeds next time the box came up with a fresh-faced howling Greenie. The Minho who now contemplated the sunrise with an air of buzzing contentment had Winston and Newt shooting him the occasional worried glance.

“What?” Minho asked.

With a grin.

Winston lowered his gaze but Newt stared him down. “Nothing. You’re just actin’ a bit different this morning.”

“Am I?” Minho looked at his glass of milk. It had been exactly two boxes since they’d gotten new cups and the glass itself was already a distressingly dull translucent color. Newt wondered if the Creators would provide adequate dishwashing soap if they ever remembered to ask. Then Minho leaned his head back on his hands and looked up at the sky. “It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh,” said Newt.

“How do you know that?” demanded Gally from the other end of their makeshift table.

Minho smiled wider. Soon he would be wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist and then hauling Justin’s dead ass out of bed to go run the Maze with him and Newt would have to deal with another day of playing the _I’m too busy to consider the panic welling up inside my head_ game before Minho returned and rattled his brain around in his skull with his utter stupidity. Usually it was the way he gave Newt a headache whenever they had a Gathering, the way he’d just blurt stuff out without thinking about it and making Alby’s expression go pitch black. It worked, though, knocked the panic right out of Newt and replaced it with exasperation and well-concealed amusement.

“I just have a good feeling about today,” said present-Minho, so confident in his words that Gally just shrugged and tossed him an orange.

 

\---

 

“Guys,” Minho declared over drinks, “I think it’s my birthday.”

Ben, the new Greenie, stared up at him. “You remember your birthday?”

The bonfire was quiet a moment, save for Clint and Jeff a little ways off arguing about gauze and some sort of leaf they’d found in the woods, and the crackling of the flames. Minho looked thoughtful for a moment.

A few more months had passed since that morning where Minho had convinced Gally that it was his birthday, and between then and now, there had been several more birthday declarations, all from Minho, all because he _had a good feeling about it_. Newt didn’t join in the light-hearted teasing or the jokes from the rest of them -- everyone had their way of coping in the Glade, and if Minho wanted four birthdays a year, Minho should get four birthdays a year.

Minho deserved four birthdays a year. He deserved probably tens of birthdays a year. No one else went to such drastic lengths to run the Maze.

“Nah,” he finally said, earning a collective groan from the rest of the Gladers, “not really. But today was good. I mean, it was just a good day.” He looked up and met Newt’s eyes for a moment.

Newt’s eyes said, _stop hogging all the birthdays_.

Minho’s eyes said, _why don’t you claim one then_.

Then Minho looked back at Ben. “I’ve got a good feeling about you, Greenie.”

 

\---

 

A week later they lost Justin. Minho wouldn’t talk about it and ran the Maze alone for a few days, barely skirting through the Doors at the end of the day with his teeth grit until Newt nearly lost his mind with worry.

It came to a head one afternoon when Minho came out of the Doors with blood streaming down his arm and the darkest scowl on his face that Newt had seen since the first time he got lost in the Maze.

(That had been a dark time, Minho’s fourth day as a Runner, and Newt had to walk him back out, assure him that they hadn’t put him on the job just to see him fail, they all knew how fast and steady his running pace was, they all got lost in the beginning, it was no big deal, and Minho had only sat there stony-faced with embarrassment. A week later Newt had taken Minho out to run the inner walls, Minho in the lead, and it had gone off without a hitch, just like he thought it would.)

The first thing to go through Newt’s mind was _Grievers_ but Minho dispelled the fear by glaring at him brightly and biting out, “it was a shucking accident, don’t look at me like that.”

“An _accident_ ,” Newt repeated, dumbly.

Accidents didn’t happen to Minho. Accidents happened to Justin and Fred and every other clunk-brained idiot who went into the Maze declaring they could find a way out the fastest; they didn’t happen to _Minho_ , who secretly worked his way towards the outer walls without telling anyone but Newt and _paced himself_ when he ran so he didn’t end up staggering back into the Glade at two o’clock gasping for air and water. Accidents happened to Newt.

When they weren’t really accidents.

Newt’s eyebrows drew closer together. “An accident?”

“Got distracted,” Minho snapped, “I’m fine, I don’t need -- just get Clint to take a look, okay? Stop looking at me like that.”

They continued to stalk towards the Med-jacks’ tent. Newt kept looking at Minho’s blood (Minho’s _blood_ , holy mother of --) and Minho kept glaring into the distance. It was all wrong. Minho had gotten scrapes before, and once he’d scraped up his elbow pretty bad, but nothing had ever caused him to bleed. Newt wasn’t even completely sure that Minho had real blood, sometimes -- it seemed like he ran entirely on biting sarcasm and unpredictability, like he’d bleed lightning. Now he knew.

“How the hell do you get into an accident to make that happen?” Newt pressed on, his leg beginning to throb. They’d reached the tent. Minho went to shove aside the tent flap and Newt yanked him off to the side. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Minho glanced at his eyes briefly. His jaw tightened. “Trade secrets. Move.”

“No.”

“Newt, _move_.”

“You can’t pull ‘trade secrets’ with me, slinthead, I _taught_ you all the trade secrets you know,” Newt hissed angrily. His fingers were practically vibrating off his hands with anger. “So you either tell me what the _hell_ happened out there or I’ll tell everyone right now that you’ve been going alone into uncharted sections of the Maze.”

There was a long silence.

Clint’s voice came floating out of the tent. “Yo, you guys done out there? Minho needs to come in and get his arm checked out.”

Minho continued to say nothing as Newt finally let go of him.

 

\---

 

Minho found him after dinner, his arm cleaned and bandaged. His expression was the slightest bit contrite as he gestured at the space next to Newt. “Can I sit?”

“Thought you didn’t have to run anything by me anymore,” Newt replied.

Minho looked like he was holding back a flinch and Newt sighed. “Look, I didn’t mean… just sit, alright? I’m not going to bloody eat you, Jesus, Min.”

Minho sat cross-legged, picking at the dead leaves. “Sorry.”

Newt raised an eyebrow.

Minho sighed this time, heavy. “I didn’t want to end your birthday on a… a bad note. And Clint said I should, too. So. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Newt interrupted, “wait. My birthday?”

Minho shrugged. “I didn’t want to leave you out of having a birthday, so I thought… it’s stupid, anyway, didn’t exactly work out like I wanted it to.”

“Since when was it my birthday?”

“Since… last night?” Minho shrugged again. “I was gonna make it a good day, you know? But obviously it wasn’t, since I nearly strangled myself to death trying to get you a present, and I didn’t even get the shucking present _and_ I cut my arm. You were right, I don’t really think about things before I do ’em,” he finished, his voice small.

Newt gave a shocked sort of laugh, blew his bangs out of his eyes. “At least you didn’t get lost in the Maze.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence passed, probably in remembrance of the present that never made it to him. Then Newt hit his arm gently -- the good arm. “I forgive you,” he said softly.

“Oh.” Minho’s mouth made a soft curve. “Uh, thanks?”

“You don’t have to make it awkward,” Newt pointed out. He cast his mind around for something safe to talk about while they worked off the dying tension. “What were you gonna get me, anyway?”

But Minho groaned and put his face down onto the crook of his elbow. It was kind of cute. That thought was a startling one, since Minho wasn’t… _cute_ , exactly, he was good looking in a disgustingly confident and maybe a little sexy kind of way, but right now there was nothing disgusting, confident _or_ sexy about how the tips of his ears were starting to slowly turn red. “No.”

“No? But Minho,” Newt nudged him, “it’s my _birthday_.”

“Nope, redo, it’s not your birthday anymore. Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

“My birthday, I call the shots. Tell me. At least then you’ll know if I woulda liked it or not so you don’t try to get the same thing again tomorrow.”

Minho turned his head slightly so that he could stare at Newt with one eye. “Why are you always pulling logic on me.”

“‘Cause you don’t have anything else in your head aside from those bloody maps. Cough up.”

For a moment Minho looked like he wanted to argue further -- and then Newt raised his eyebrow again and he lifted his head up and mumbled towards the direction of the Doors: “I saw these flowers.”

Soft.

Newt had to consciously breathe for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Around section 6, I saw -- it was like this area that opened up and looked… recent? I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I’ve never seen flowers like it before, but they were pretty and I thought… since you hang out in the gardens all the time you might like them, I don’t know, but when I got close the, the walls started moving, and it had, like, spikes on it, so.” He waved his hand neutrally. “Wouldn’t really be able to get them again for another week.”

“You risked your _life_ ,” Newt said slowly, “to get me rare and exotic looking flowers.”

“I wouldn’t call it risking my life, maybe -- maybe getting distracted.” Minho was looking everywhere but at him while he said this, but suddenly he turned and stared at Newt and, hey, his cheeks were definitely red. It occurred to Newt all of a sudden that Minho, who occasionally made Greenies pee themselves with just one ill-timed glare, was flustered. Because of Newt, and some flowers.

Newt laughed. Actual, real laughter, the kind that suddenly tore itself out of him and went spinning into the air, all -- pink and stuff, gross and happy. “Shuck,” he wheezed, “shuck, Minho. Happy birthday to _me_.”

“Uh, Newt --”

“Ben,” Newt called out, still laughing, “Hey, c’mere a sec, will ya?”

Ben came bounding over, a jar of Gally’s-worst-nightmare-moonshine in his hand, and immediately started hovering over Minho. “Hey, Newt. Minho! Is your arm okay?”

Newt waved him down as Minho stammered out a bewildered _yeah, it’s fine, thanks_. “Hey, you see that guy over there? Alby? You see Alby?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Go to Alby,” Newt instructed, “tell him you wanna be a Runner.”

“O-okay…?”

“Minho,” Newt said when Ben had wandered off in Alby’s general direction, dazed but ultimately looking good-natured, “happy birthday to us.”

“What are you doing?”

Newt rocked back happily. “It’s our birthday. So we both get presents, okay? You get a Running partner again, ‘cause you hate running the Maze alone.”

“I don’t hate it,” Minho stared at him, “I never said that I hated it.”

“You hate it,” Newt corrected him impatiently, “it’s boring and you hate not being able to run your shuck mouth all the time, which you only do if people are around, and Ben totally fancies you, anyway, it’s a win-win situation.”

Minho was giving him an odd and not entirely appreciative look. “Uh, no he doesn’t. What?”

“He was about to rip off his own arm and give it to you as an offering, dude, he asks me about you all day every day, _how’s Minho_ and _oh it must be tough to run like that all the time_ and _I wish I could do something to help_ ,” Newt said, which may have been a little shitty of him to say (especially when he tried out the accent, which felt like he was trying to lick syrup out of his teeth), but in the grand schemes of birthdays and Ben not knowing what he didn’t have to know and making sure Minho got his ass safely back from the great beyond every day, he figured the good lord would let it slide. “Just -- do it for me, okay, Min? As a friend.”

“A friend.”

“It’s my birthday,” Newt repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He was starting to believe it himself. “Think of it as a birthday present.”

Minho seemed to be at war with himself for a few minutes. The sun began to set during that span of time. In the distance, Ben was talking hesitantly to Alby and making arm gestures at the Doors. Alby’s foot was tapping. Ben began to do jumping jacks. Alby held him down by force and began to drag him over to Nick. Newt smiled.

“Alright,” Minho decided, shaking his head, his smile uncharacteristically fond for the split second before it turned all hard and mocking, “you can thank me later, Newtie boy.”

 

\---

 

Frypan’s breakfasts had gotten better over the months, but they definitely still weren’t gourmet.

Still, Minho hummed as he spooned what Newt hazarded was oatmeal into his mouth. Next to him Ben was looking simultaneously determined not to fail and also a little green. Minho heaped more food into Ben’s saucer. Ben got just a little bit greener.

“Cheer up, dude, no one messes up _that_ badly on his first day,” Minho said cheerfully, “besides, you’ll be with me, Minho the infallible. No child left behind when I’m here.”

Newt rolled his eyes. “Big words, huh? Tryna impress the rookie?”

“You’re the one who used it first.” Minho tipped back his bowl and emptied the last of the maybe-oatmeal into his mouth, and then leaned over to reach for a few apples. “On me. Were you tryna impress _me_?”

“Someone’s chipper this morning,” Winston commented. Minho just grinned at him.

“I’ve got,” he said, “a good feeling about today.”

 

\---

 

The next month a strange thing fell into Nick’s lap when he emptied the supplies from the Box.

He looked at the little cardstock packet. And looked at it again.

Then Newt snatched the packet from him to get a good look at the label.

 _How to grow your own roses_ , it said, and Nick’s incredulous _which shank put this on the supplies request list while I wasn’t shucking looking_ was answered later that afternoon, when Minho (smirking) and Ben (dazed) tumbled through the Doors to find Newt digging up a little plot in the gardens, his cheeks smudged with dirt.

“Watcha doin’, Newtie boy?” Minho asked as he jogged over. The sun was still up and he dispatched Ben to the Map Room; the kid practically yelped an affirmative and went running off.

“Oh, you know.”

Newt wiped a bit of dirt off his cheek. He had the sneaking feeling that he’d only managed to spread it around more, a feeling confirmed when the corner of Minho’s mouth sharpened upwards and he folded his arms (God) and leaned against the pillar of the greenhouse. For once in his life, Newt decided not to call him out on it.

Instead, he grabbed the little packet of rose seeds and shook them out carefully over the turned-over soil.

“I got this cool birthday present,” he said, wiping his hair out of his eyes, “wanna check it out with me?”


End file.
